


coeus, son of honerva

by jxniberries



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, Character Study, Gen, Mommy Issues, Pre-Canon, Pre-Series, Young Lotor, among other things lmfao
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-04
Updated: 2019-04-04
Packaged: 2019-11-27 13:35:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18195266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jxniberries/pseuds/jxniberries
Summary: even from beyond the grave, all he wants is to make his mother proud.he has to.





	coeus, son of honerva

**Author's Note:**

> guess who's back and better than ever ( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°) college is still killing me but i only have 30-something days left, yeet
> 
> i'm SO fucking late but! this was my piece for the the Good, the Bad, and the Beautiful lotor zine!! i'm so proud of this piece honestly and i loved working on it so much, thank you so much to all the amazing contributors and to the mods for giving me the chance to express my love for my baby boy, mwah
> 
> i hope you enjoy!

It's a bad idea, he's well aware. He's banking solely on his parents' schedules remaining exactly the same as they always have and the sheer luck of not being caught by the sentries constantly on patrol.

Because in the event of either his memory serving him incorrectly or just simply running out of luck, Lotor knows he'll be fucked. Severely. In as many horrifying ways as he's capable of conjuring up in his head.

This, he knows, yet he cannot stop walking.

There's a faint voice in the depths of his conscious, the one infinitesimal remaining shred of logic and caution telling him to turn around. Curiosity may gnaw at him as harshly as she pleases, but that doesn't mean he has any valid reason to answer her call. Even Kova, who follows behind Lotor, meows his disapproval. He's barely allowed into his father's wing as it currently stands and that's only on rare occasions for a good lashing or two. Or dozen, depending on Zarkon’s mood.

All the more reason he shouldn't be here.

But when the large doors to his mother's lab slide open before him with a slow, mechanical hiss, Lotor realizes then there is no turning back.

With its high, vaulted ceilings and far-reaching walls, the room before him is daunting, and for a few ticks Lotor stands completely rooted to the floor, having lost the ability to do all else but breathe. Hanging on the farthest wall is a huge, traditional Galran tapestry, hand-woven designs made of silk and gold threads of the old royal insignia, the last remaining symbol of a bygone era of peace. Lotor notices windows evenly spaced around the room much like the ones in the Grand Observatory, though a heavy metal lattice obscures his view of the stars. He wonders, briefly, if they’ve always been there.

Only the distant sound of oncoming sentries spurs Lotor into action, rushing inside the abandoned lab before he risks being seen. The doors close behind him with a groan and he rests his back against them, first giving the lab another once-over before even daring to go forth.    

He expects it to feel like sacrilege; like an intruder, forcing his way into holy territory and laying sullied, unworthy hands on that which was – and always would be – far beyond his ken. Tense, Lotor wonders if his presence alone might be enough to raise some distant alarm somewhere aboard the ship; his ears strain for a shout and the lash of a crop that he expects to eventually come, and the shuddering thought is yet another thing that effectively keeps him from considering venturing toward this wing again so long as he's alive.     

For now, there is only an eerie, disconcerting silence that has Lotor holding his breath, expectation in the air as a pair of appraising eyes carefully follow his every tentative step. Honerva's spirit watches him; she envelopes him, welcomes his curiosity without question because she knows it's kin to her own. Perhaps it is she who breaks the spell holding him back from laying a timid hand on one of her precious tools and when he does, Lotor swears he hears his mother's voice somewhere in the room.     

_Go, my son._

So he does.       

Hesitation follows in every step as Lotor dares to walk around, eyes scanning over the tall, looming bookcases filled to capacity, to the mess of notebooks and scrolls and parchment scattered across every possible inch of every exam table. The faint purple gleam from the lights illuminates the room around him and for a moment, Honerva’s spirit comes alive, guiding her son where she pleases, where she knows he’ll make a home for himself. Crystals, vials, preserved specimens of flora and fauna of all shapes and designs he's never seen before add to the majesty of the room. One in particular catches Lotor’s eye, a small _zolmanth_ specimen of a bright pink hue, and he has no logical explanation for what compels him to do so, but he lifts the delicate herb from its place on the desk, plucks a few leaves from the flower and puts them in his mouth. Its taste is rancid, a result of preservation salts and brine and ten thousand years’ worth of fermentation, and the aftertaste it leaves is not much better. Lotor erupts in a coughing fit, gagging as he spits out the leaves, doing everything he can to erase the taste off his poor, _poor_ tastebuds.

(He’ll worry about potential poisoning later.)  

When he recovers, Lotor's attention returns to the exam table before him, and he fingers through various other specimens – this time being _doubly_ careful to avoid putting anything in his mouth that doesn't belong. It’s hard to believe – surreal, almost – that his own mother once stepped foot in this room, touched what he’s touching, breathed where he’s breathing. Lotor is floored by just _how_ much knowledge is contained in this single room, and there isn’t a single inkling of doubt in his mind that what his mother harbored in her brain was tenfold what he sees in this room. His admiration for her soars.     

He finds himself picking up old note logs that pique his interest, volumes of books that are almost too heavy for him to lift up. Lotor does this, and soon finds solace in a far corner of the lab, curled up under one of his mother’s work tables with a mess of notes and encyclopedias and journals scattered at his feet. With a trill, Kova pads his feet across them to curl up in Lotor's lap, purring his contentment when he settles. Even he seems to be intrigued by his former caretaker’s work, meowing as Lotor delicately fingers through each page. 

Lotor has always known that, after her body exited the rift, Honerva was able to carry him to term and died shortly after childbirth. As such, the extent of his knowledge about his own mother was that he was her son. His perception of her is otherwise restricted to what he’s read about her in books, to the mental pictures he’s painted from the fading memories of those who knew her. Everything else he’d managed to gather and scrounge up was pure hearsay; her brilliance was unmatched, he’d been told. That she had been Alfor’s most trusted alchemist, an inquisitive scientist with a penchant for the unknown. She was a pioneer in every right, at the forefront of much of Altea’s technological advancements.

Lotor likes to think he might have loved her.

From her notes, he gathers what type of person she may have been. Messy scrawls of High Altean cover every conceivable space on every piece of parchment, and though he barely understands a word it still calls to him, invites him to explore. He spends vargas in that room, losing track of time as he tries parsing through theoretical physics and quantum calculations, putting himself in Honerva’s shoes, forcing himself to think like she would, to inquire like she would.

He’s laughing to himself over the smallest nuances, having an entire conversation with a note log that is more than ten thousand years old, and as bittersweet as it is, Lotor knows definitively that his mother is right here, laughing right with him. He only notices the distant chatter as they approach the room, and instinctively Lotor curls up under Honerva’s desk, seeking refuge there as if she might offer him some protection from what is to come.

The room is dead silent as Lotor’s ears strain for clarity, for the single, slightest indication he needs to get the _fuck_ out before he’s whipped half to death, and then:

“I don’t know why they haven’t done away with the bastard kid altogether,” says another.

“He’s a _half-breed_.”

It stings, it always does, but Lotor is far more concerned about potentially being caught – so much that he bumps his head on the desk while trying to get up and almost slips on a piece of parchment and Kova yelps for him, to which Lotor delivers a harsh, “Kova, _shh!_ ” The poor animal, deflated, saunters off to some far corner of the room to leave Lotor to his devices – and hopefully not make his presence so obviously known.       

“Did you hear that?” says one voice, _dangerously_ close to the room. “Who’s in there? Show yourself! In the name of Imperial Lord Zarkon!”    

While he stays stock still, footsteps wander up and down the halls for some time and only when Lotor is certain they’ve faded he lets out a puff of air, looking around himself to gather his bearings.

Although quick, Lotor is careful to return everything to its original place; every book open to the page he found it on, every piece of parchment, delicately staged. He cannot leave the slightest indication he was here, and spends a good ten doboshes ensuring his survival. The tears pricking the back of his eyes almost burn, though Lotor is determined not to let any fall – not now, and _certainly_ not later. ( _You don’t even_ know _her,_ he reminds himself.)  

Nevertheless, heavy longing rests in Lotor’s soul when he soon leaves, Kova following dutifully behind. It takes a few minutes to just get the doors to close as silently as he can, and after that, Lotor _books_ it.

He makes haste in leaving his father’s wing, taking every precaution he must to avoid being seen. His efforts are, for the most part, successful, and Lotor escapes with nary a scratch. A sentry finds him _just_ as he rounds the corner to the central wing of the ship, and Lotor screeches to a sudden halt, taken aback by the sudden view of thick, plated armor; the former raises a curious brow and fixes the young prince with a suspicious gaze, and though he makes no direct remark, there’s no mistaking that the sentry is well-aware of where Lotor is just coming from. (Whether or not the bastard squeals on him to his father is up for debate.)  

“Well, if it isn’t our _most esteemed highness_.” The words hang thickly on the sentry’s tongue like poison, and Lotor’s displeasure is palpable from the way he folds his arms across his chest. Again, the sentry says nothing of it and coughs. “His Imperial Lord Zarkon has requested your appearance in the Grand Throne Room.”        

“Oh? Is the devil finally rotting on his deathbed?”       

Clicking his tongue, the sentry turns on his heel and walks away from Lotor, expecting him to follow. He has half a mind to go his own route to answer his father's call, but reasons that if he wants any potential lashings cut down to half, he may as well do as he’s told for now.       

The silent escort is nothing unusual, so Lotor allows his mind to wander for as far as it can; though all his thoughts end up circling back to his mother. He is more than well aware he can never measure up to Honerva's brilliance, there is no contest. She was a woman far ahead of her time, but the tiniest part in him just wants to make her proud. Even from beyond the grave, all he wants is to make his mother, _his_ mother, proud.

So he will.

He has to.


End file.
